The Adventure of the Carving Killer
by VictoriaAGrey
Summary: John Watson has started to build a new life for himself in the wake of Sherlock's passing. After being called onto a case for the Yard, his new life will start to crumble around his feet. Will this be a welcomed change? And will the return of the world's only consulting detective be well received or only serve to plunge John back into the recesses of his mind?


**_A/N: This is my first foray into writing a Sherlock story... let me know what you think by sending me feedback via reviews or private message! Thanks and Enjoy!_**

**Chapter 1: The Letter M**

Doctor John Watson awoke to the sound of his alarm clock already knowing how his Friday would play out.

_He would rub his eyes for five seconds in a futile attempt to bring immediate clarity to his vision... roll over and kiss Mary... she would giggle as his mustache grazed her cheek... walk the eleven steps to the bathroom for a hot shower which would last for approximately fifteen minutes... get dressed... grab his coat and scarf... wish Mary well for the day and kiss her goodbye... hail a cab which would stop a kilometer from the practice he was currently working at a café where he would order a chocolate drizzled croissant and earl grey tea, both of which would be finished before he arrived... tedious hours spent assuring mothers that their child's cold was, in fact, just a cold and not whatever the latest virus in the news was... go home... eat dinner... relax on the couch while Mary watched her favorite sitcom... have sex... read for an hour... and then finally, and often times mercifully, sleep would claim him._

It didn't take a master of deduction to know that John had fallen into a routine so monotonous that it barely qualified as living, at least to most. To John, however, it was all he could handle. Routine had become his salvation in a world which had been thrown into brutal and unrelenting lucidity following _his_ suicide. Suddenly everything took on a harsh edge, a menacing undertone that undermined every optimistic attitude he had studiously cultivated during his life. He no longer saw shades of gray; everything was black and white, light and dark.

Mary is light, John thought as he leaned over and placed a kiss on her cheek, waiting for her usual giggle and then walking the eleven steps to their shared bathroom. Meeting Mary was a blessing and one which he knew he did not deserve. They had first met three months after _his_ demise, while John was still in the throes of mourning, and she had dragged him steadily but surely back into the light. She was a stunning and compassionate woman capable of enticing men in far better places in life than John was in his, but she had for some inexplicable reason chose him to settle down with.

She had saved him from certain destruction, from sinking deeper and deeper into a depression the likes of which he had not experienced since his return from Afghanistan. Mary endured days of melancholy and nights marred by nightmares where she would be awoken by his screams to a dead man. John knew he did not deserve her and this led to him spontaneously thanking her for everything from the significant to the inane. He never wanted her to go a day without knowing exactly how he felt about her; now knowing the price of keeping such thoughts to himself.

"Your jumper is on the bed," John heard Mary call from the bedroom.

Smiling lightly to himself in the mirror, he called back thanks as he set about trimming his moustache, the only trace left of the haggard beard he had sported during the time of his most intense mourning when simple tasks like shaving seemed too trying to bother with. Why he kept the damn thing he did not know, especially when everyone in his life made a point of saying it looked like it did not belong on him, but he had kept it nonetheless. A simple act of defiance which was likely the most exciting thing he had done in the last eleven months.

After finishing in the bathroom and getting dressed, he made his way out into the living room where Mary was watching the morning news. Nothing of significance seemed to be happening in and around London so he tuned it out as he gathered his keys and phone. He was aware of her walking towards him as he pulled his jacket off its hook and put it on. John then reached for his scarf but Mary's hand beat him to it.

Tying the scarf around his neck she wore a mask of indifference but her hands and eyes betrayed her. She treated the scarf with the reverence she knew John required of something so precious. It was the one concession he had allowed himself. Looking at _his_ stuff was only this side of tolerable on the best of days and physically painful on the worst. But he felt it was wrong, an injustice of sorts, to not keep something of _his_ to remember him by. Finding his resolve one day during a visit to 221B Baker Street to retrieve a book he had left behind, like most of his belongings, he saw the scarf laid neatly across his bed. How it had gotten there he did not know, but that did not stop him from picking it up and allowing the soft cashmere of the blue scarf to affect him to his core. It was painful at first to see the ubiquitous scarf not around the neck of its owner and that was when the thought had struck him that this simple scarf was all he needed to remember his friend by. From that day forward he wore the scarf under his jacket, tying it in the only knot it had ever known and proceeding with his day feeling as if he was properly honoring his fallen friend.

"Tell me, mister," Mary started as she finished tying the scarf and zipping up his jacket. "Are you going to get that same breakfast of yours today?"

"No, I've decided to add some spice to my life and get curry from that little place across the street," he laughed in response.

"I certainly hope not! Do try to remember what happened after you ate there last week."

"No need. My intestines are still in shambles."

"Well, you have my permission to add some spice to your life but not if it involves curry. Perhaps a raspberry croissant instead of the chocolate drizzle one?"

John knew he should feel a tad more embarrassed that he had become predictable to the point where his breakfast choices were so set in stone, but he didn't particularly care about such dull matters any more. "I'll think about it," he said as he reached out to cup the side of her face and place a kiss on it. "I love you, sweetheart. Have a good day."

"I love you, too. I'll see you tonight," Mary replied in her sweet, melodic voice which never failed to soothe John's nerves. With a final kiss he was out the door and descending the stairs to the street. Just as he was about to open the door his phone started ringing. Checking the phone to see who would be calling him so early, he felt mild surprise to see it was DI Lestrade.

To say that matters between himself and the Yarders were strained was to put it mildly. He was still furious at Anderson and Donovan for their campaign that had lost him his best friend and the higher ups that had effectively sanctioned it into tangible action. He did not group Lestrade with this bunch but it was not often that he heard from this particular friend. Usually it was just a text every few weeks to see how he was doing and the occasional beer at the pub. Never did he call early in the morning. Lestrade was deviating from his usual modus operandi. Something was wrong.

"Hello?"

"John? Have I caught you at a bad time?"

"No, not at all. I was just on my way to work. What's wrong?"

"Well, I... what makes you think something's wrong?"

Even John had to roll his eyes at this one as he kept his eyes on the lookout for a cab. "It doesn't take a stroke of genius to hear the stress in your voice. The ungodly hour at which you're calling not without standing. "

"Yes, well," Lestrade started, a little flustered at how idiotic his question had been. "There is a reason I called and I'll get right to it. I need you on a case."

"You – what!?" John replied, sounding equal amounts indignant and shocked.

"I need you on a case. It's bad, John. Real bad. And we down here at the Yard think it's just the beginning."

"Just the beginning? Why?"

"The killer has left a, uh, message."

"What is the message?"

"The letter M."

"Just a letter?" John inquired feeling confused as to why this would indicate a potential repeat occurrence by the killer in the near future, but that confusion did not even come close to eclipsing the confusion as to why he of all people was being called about it. "Listen, Listrade this is fascinating and all but - "

"It was carved, not so much as it was stabbed into the victims arm."

"I understand, but - "

"John, please don't make me beg."

A silence pervaded through the phone, during which time John realized he had completely forgotten about fetching a cab and a burst of adrenaline had shot through him like a rogue bullet. He always felt it when presented with a case but it was not him who the case was normally presented to. His role was that of the voice of reason, the calming force behind the madness; not the madness itself.

"Why me?" was all John was able to voice during the on-slot of confusing emotions.

"I know you're not... him, but you were never just the man in the background. I need everyone on this case and I mean everyone. Please, just come and give us a hand. If you find nothing or don't want to continue on I won't stop you, but I need to know that I at least put all my resources into this case."

Only a second passed before John made his decision. "Text me the address. I'm on my way."

It appeared that not only was the spice of life being added back into John's life, but it also seemed that the game was on.


End file.
